Drabbles in 221B format
by chasingriver
Summary: Short stories in the 221B format - 221 words, and the last word starts with the letter B.
1. Beautician

It was going to be a surprise for their one month anniversary as a couple. He'd snuck off to Boots in the middle of the day while John was at the clinic. He had to admit, he was a bit out of his depth in this area. He prowled the aisles, searching for the hair removal section. He considered some of the creams, but a quick sniff left him nauseous. No, he wouldn't be going that route.

He settled on "wax strips." The cheery box touted their effectiveness and lack of toxicity. That explained the foul smell of the other stuff. He tried to conceal the wax under some toilet paper at the checkout, but the purchase still earned him a raised eyebrow and a smirk from the checkout girl.

Once home, he read the instructions. So that was why the creams had flaunted their "painless" qualities. This wasn't a "beauty product," it was a form of medieval torture. He warmed the wax strip and gingerly applied it. As he pulled it off, he let out a piercing cry of pain. John, just home from the clinic in time to hear Sherlock's anguished shout, ran up the stairs to find him clutching his groin in agony. "Next time I get a brilliant idea like this, John, I'm going to a beautician."


	2. Bastard

**A/N: **4 hours in A&E because they can't fax a prescription from the US to the UK. Seriously? I have a 3.5 hour drive to make tomorrow and now it's 3am. Ugh.

Sherlock sat in the A&E waiting room, muttering. Mrs. Hudson had found him, shivering with a raging fever. John was gone for a conference for the week, but Sherlock had been determined to just ride it out.

"This is idiotic."

"Yes, but it's a bank holiday weekend, you have a fever of 105 degrees, and John isn't here, is he? If I let anything happen to you, I'll never hear the end of it. I might only be your landlady, but you do help pay the bills. You can't do that if you're dead now, can you?"

More muttering emerged from the scarf-clad, shivering detective. They'd signed in and were waiting for their turn.

"Please, Mrs. Hudson. Go home. I am perfectly capable of handling this."

"No dear, you'd just take a cab back home as soon as I leave and sneak back upstairs. I'm staying until you get seen."

"You do realize I'm contracting more germs here than I have already? If anything is going to kill me, it's going to be this."

"Yes, dear."

Sherlock had already explained to the receptionist and the assessment nurse how pointless this was, how idiotic they were, and why he shouldn't be here.

The assessment nurse shook her head. She could sense this patient was going to be a bit of a bastard.


	3. Boatfloat

Sherlock and John had gone down to South Devon for a weekend holiday in the small town of Dartmouth. Agatha Christie had lived just across the River Dart in Kingswear, and Sherlock wanted to pay her house a visit. It was a small, picturesque holiday town, more known for its old historic buildings than any sort of violence. Built on the side of a huge hill, the buildings were almost terraced down its face, giving the town its maze of streets and endless step-filled alleyways. One of the oddest parts of the town was a railway station with no railway line. It had been a station for Kingswear, across the river. Passengers were brought from the train to the station via a ferry. Behind it was the boatfloat, a square mooring area for boats in the center of town.

They'd taken the ferry to visit Agatha Christie's house, stopping by Dartmouth Castle afterwards to view the English Channel from its crumbling stone walls. That evening, while they slept, a single gunshot rang out. In the morning, the police from Plymouth were crawling all over the area, looking for the presumed body. John looked at Sherlock and they both smiled. Sherlock walked up to the detective in charge. "I believe, at low tide, you'll find the body, weighted down in the boatfloat."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This one is for Atlin Merrick, who prompted me to write it. Pretty much everything is accurate except the murder. My mum grew up here, and I recently visited my uncle there while I was in England. I've put a couple pictures (high and low tides) of the boatfloat up on tumblr (chasingriversong). It's pretty neat to see the boats go up and down with the tides. And it would make a great place to dump a body for 12 hours or so. ;)


	4. Bronze

Sherlock was in Washington DC, investigating the death of the British Ambassador. After only half an hour at the Embassy, he provided them with conclusive evidence of a deliberate poisoning by the head chef. The Deputy Ambassador wanted to know why the chef would do it. Sherlock just looked at him like he was an idiot, and said, "That's why you'll want to question him."

Sherlock called John on his cell. "This was a complete waste of time. I'm going to look into Skyping the investigations. There's no reason either of us should have to leave the flat for something as trivial as this, let alone the country. I can't get a flight until tomorrow."

"It's okay. Get some food. Go to a gallery or something. I can do unspeakable things to you when you get back."

Sherlock went to the National Gallery of Art and wandered aimlessly through the sculpture galleries. He turned a corner, and his breath caught in his throat. _John. _He'd seen the piece before, of course - a life-size bronze at the V&A, but he'd not expected to see it here. Seeing the piece in plaster made the transcendent look on the statue's face even more powerful. It reminded him of seeing John in the throes of orgasm. It was Auguste Rodin's "The Age of Bronze."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Okay, so this is fairly autobiographical. I saw the piece (the full-size bronze) at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London earlier this month. It was called to my attention by Atlin Merrick, who wrote the wonderful "Four Shame, Sherlock - The Age of Bronze" about this sculpture. (Go and read it.) Today, whilst back in Washington DC visiting relatives for the holidays, I carved out time for a visit to the National Gallery of Art. They actually had two versions of the piece – a half life-sized bronze and a life-size plaster cast of the original. The plaster really highlights the facial expression much more than the bronze does. It really was quite breathtaking. To see the plaster version, check out my tumblr of December 29th at chasingriversong dot tumblr dot com.


	5. Birthday

John had already given Sherlock his birthday gifts – a new cashmere scarf and drawer dividers for his sock drawer. It would make the indexing easier. They'd gone to Angelo's and had a lovely dinner. Sherlock had been surprised when John refused dessert. "No, Sherlock. I have something back at the flat."

Sherlock took John's hand in his as they made their way back to the flat through the cold London streets. "So, John, what's this big surprise?"

"You'll see." He had Sherlock sit at the table and close his eyes. He'd hidden the birthday cake he'd made earlier behind a small chemistry lab's worth of glassware on the counter.

"Chocolate."

"Yes. Keep your eyes closed." John got out a match and lit the candles.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Melting wax. The last time we did this I was much less dressed, John."

John held the cake in front of him, candles blazing. "Open your eyes." He started singing Happy Birthday.

Sherlock looked at him with complete bewilderment.

John got to the end of the song. Sherlock was still just staring at him.

"Blow the candles out. Make a wish. Haven't you ever done this before?"

Sherlock's eyes glistened with tears, though he would have denied it. "This is wonderful, John. No one has ever made me a cake for my birthday."

* * *

><p>AN: I wrote this for Lastew. It's her birthday today. Everyone should go and read her story "Follow My Voice" for their own present!


	6. Badge

**A/N:** A 221B for {IBegToDreamAndDiffer}, who left me such lovely feedback tonight. :)

* * *

><p>They were shopping for a new bed. Again.<p>

"You have to buy it, Sherlock. This was entirely your fault."

In retrospect, the handcuffs _had_ been a profoundly bad idea - not the first eight times, mind you. But the ninth time was a bitch.

It was going swimmingly until John knocked the key off the bedside table and it bounced behind the headboard. The bed was too large and too heavy to move - heavier still with Sherlock squirming around on it. The headboard went down to the floor. There was no way John could reach it. Sherlock protested that he could just _pick the damned lock already_ if John would just get him a paper clip, but John didn't have a clue where to find one.

"What about a hairpin?"

John looked at Sherlock, incredulously. "I don't have a fucking _paper clip_, Sherlock. What makes you think I'd have a bloody _hairpin_? Do I look like I use hairpins? Try to get off the bed so I can move it."

Unfortunately, even the long-limbed, lithe detective wasn't _that _lithe or long-limbed, but John did get a rather entertaining view of his arse.

"Bolt cutters, John."

"It's Sunday. The shops are closed."

And that was why they had to saw the headboard in half.

"Next time, Sherlock, just take his badge."


	7. Body

Greg awoke to the delicious smell of freshly baked scones - which was odd, because usually he did the cooking.

Mycroft walked in bearing a large tea-tray. There was a fresh pot of tea, two bone china mugs (teacups were 'too fussy'), a plate of fresh, warm scones, butter, jam (both raspberry and strawberry) in small bowls, and clotted cream.

"Good morning, love. I thought I'd make you breakfast in bed." He placed the tray on the bedside table.

Greg eyed him suspiciously. "What'd you do? You start a war or something? Because I'm pretty sure a normal Saturday morning doesn't merit this, and our anniversary was last month."

"You'd merit this on any morning, Gregory, but I do admit to bit of an ulterior motive."

"No war then? No trip you're apologising for in advance?"

"Not even a little bit." He smiled and pulled the duvet completely off Greg, exposing his naked body.

"Oi, that's cold."

"Not for long." He started cutting into one of the scones, slathering it with jam and clotted cream. He placed it on Greg's chest, and then gave up the charade entirely as he started spooning jam and cream directly onto his lover.

It was then Greg realised there were no plates, and 'breakfast in bed' became the fine Saturday tradition of 'breakfast on body.'


	8. Brother

Everyone always assumed Mycroft Holmes had found John Watson and set him up to be Sherlock's flatmate. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Surveillance knew no boundaries, not even in Barts. Mycroft had leapt into action immediately - it had been too important to leave to subordinates. The information he retrieved only confirmed his fears - ex-soldier, doctor, loyal, adrenaline-junkie. Dear God. It was worse than he'd imagined. Not only was he the perfect foil for his difficult sibling, he might even be good for him.

That manic look behind Sherlock's eyes as he showed John around the flat; John's obvious awe and astonishment at Sherlock's ridiculous deductions. Sherlock was taken with him. Friend. Cohort. Partner in crime (well, not crime, exactly). Sod the Christmas dinners. He'd be lucky if Sherlock even bothered showing up for them at all.

He stopped by the crime scene. The look in Sherlock's eyes told him all he needed to know.

He went back to his luxurious flat, and started calmly putting Sherlock's clothes and possessions into a pile on the chair in his bedroom.

It wasn't until he was in the shower, with the water as hot as he could stand it, that he started started crying; silently at first, and then in great, wracking sobs - grieving the loss of his brother.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** In case you're wondering, this event does not take place in any of my other storylines or AUs. It's a one-shot.


	9. Break

**A/N:** For the lovely {IBegToDreamAndDiffer}.

* * *

><p>Mycroft looked at the huge stack of folders on his desk, glanced at his paper shredder, and suddenly wished it had an 'Incinerate' button. It would be far more satisfying than <em>shredding <em>documents, certainly. Just drop them in, press the button, and watch a small burst of flame shoot out the top.

He texted Gregory.

_I hate my job. -MH_

Greg's reply was immediate.

_**You run the world. Of course you hate your job. -G**_

Mycroft smiled a little at that.

_There's too much paper. It's driving me insane. -MH_

_**No, your brother is insane. You just need to get out of the office more. -G**_

_I want an incinerator for my paper shredder. -MH_

_**Christ. You really do need to get out more. Remind me not to leave the matches out at home. Meet me for lunch? -G**_

_Can't. Too much paperwork. -MH_

_**Meet me for blazingly hot sex? -G**_

That one sounded _better_ than the incinerator.

_Where? -MH_

_**How about the top deck of the car park at the Yard? You could use some excitement. Bring the documents, I have an idea. -G**_

The sex, as promised, was blazingly hot, but so was impromptu bonfire in the metal rubbish bin from Greg's office.

Mycroft relaxed for the first time all day.

"See?" Greg said, "You just needed a break."


	10. Bedside

For Andy.

* * *

><p>The university phoned Mycroft; Sherlock had asked for him specifically.<p>

"Your brother has appendicitis, Mr Holmes. He needs surgery. Can you come?"

"I'm leaving now." His assistant cancelled his appointments for the rest of the week.

When he arrived at the hospital, Sherlock smiled at him through his pain. "Thanks for coming, My."

"Of course. When is the surgery?"

"In an hour."

Various nurses and anaesthesiologists streamed through the prep area, asking the same questions and taking the same vital signs. Sherlock looked away as they prepared the needle for the IV, and Mycroft grasped his brother's hand as they slipped it into his vein and covered it with a clear dressing.

When they added the sedative to the saline drip, Sherlock's features relaxed and his eyes lost their focus.

"Fuzzy," he said, concerned. "Not good. Don't want to do it."

"Don't worry, your mind will be fine after the surgery. Your abdomen, as well. It has to be done - I'm not going to lose you over something like this."

After a final consultation with the surgeon, Mycroft kissed his brother lightly on the forehead before they wheeled him down the corridor on the gurney.

When Sherlock regained consciousness in the recovery room, he felt Mycroft's hand on his own, and opened his eyes to see him, waiting at his bedside.


	11. Beach

The sun was nice, but the dry California air assaulted their skin as soon as they stepped from the air-conditioned airport. It reminded John of Afghanistan, and it almost made him long for the endless drizzle of London (but not quite).

They'd been hired for a case so trivial that Sherlock had almost refused it - a 'catch the wife with the pool boy so the client can get out of the pre-nup' debacle. When John pointed out the 'all-expense paid holiday' aspect of it, even Sherlock had second thoughts about his tolerance for inane cases.

They'd packed shorts, swimming trunks, and t-shirts. Well, Sherlock had to buy t-shirts; he didn't actually own any. And they both had to buy shorts. And sunblock. Lots of sunblock. (Sherlock had whinged about that, but John insisted.) Sherlock drew the line at flip-flops and settled instead for some horribly expensive sandals.

Sherlock informed the client that the case was horribly difficult and would take at least a week. Before the first afternoon was out, he had the damning evidence. He planned to produce said evidence, with his usual dramatic flair, at the end of the week.

He gave John a ridiculously smug grin and lowered the top on the bright red convertible they'd hired. "Come along, John," he said. "We're going to the beach."


	12. Board

"No, absolutely not. They're full of screaming children and poor food choices."

"Don't be such a spoilsport, Mycroft. Have you ever been to a carnival?"

Mycroft gave him an incredulous look. "What do you think, Gregory? Honestly. Can you see my parents taking either of us to a carnival? The closest we got to 'family entertainment' was a matinee at the opera."

"I have two words for you," Greg said with a cheeky grin. "Ghost Train."

Mycroft stared at him.

"You might want to wear something more, er, accessible than a suit though. I have a feeling you'll want to make every second count. I won't have much time to do my work," he smiled.

"And what exactly is a Ghost Train, Gregory?"

"The best five minutes you'll ever spend at a carnival," Greg whispered and gave Mycroft's ear a small bite.

Mycroft hummed a response and felt his resolve crumble.

A half an hour later, they were paying for their tickets at the carnival in the small town near the manor.

"Two for the Ghost Train," Greg said to the ticket seller and managed not to crack a smile.

The vendor didn't have as much restraint; he openly grinned as he waved them into the ride. No one rode the Ghost Train for the thrills promised on the sign board.


	13. Brat

**A/N**: For Deklava, who had the idea.

**Warnings**: Sibling incest

**Summary**: How the sheet scene in _A Scandal in Belgravia _might have gone in an AU.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had shown up at Buckingham Palace <em>wearing a sheet.<em>

The day couldn't get much worse than that, surely. He'd have to smooth things over with Harry; a lovely man, but he expected protocol to be _observed._

It wasn't worth trying to _force_ Sherlock to do something, so he didn't. He let him sit there in his sheet looking like an idiot. Which, in hindsight, may have been a Very Bad Idea.

"Don't be alarmed," he told Sherlock. "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?" he replied with a snide grin. "She provides – shall we say – recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it."

He was about to continue when Sherlock stood up from the sofa and walked over to him, clutching his sheet around him. He gave Mycroft the briefest of evil grins before he draped himself over Mycroft's knees. The sheet slid open to reveal his bare bum. Of course.

"How would _I_ know, Mycroft? Surely, you know _far_ more about recreational scolding than I do."

The phrase dripped with so much innuendo that John's jaw, already on the floor, fell even further.

"Sit. Down." Mycroft fumed. _And I'll remind you just exactly how much I know when we get home, you little brat._


	14. Bubble

For cookieswillcrumble.

Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock spend a quiet holiday together in Greece.

Warnings: implied sibling incest

Beta: deklava

* * *

><p>The sun had just dropped below the horizon, and the orange glow of sunset lingered in the warm Mediterranean air. Mycroft reclined on the chaise, reading his book and sipping from a glass of good scotch.<p>

They'd spent the morning exploring some nearby ruins. Ancient Greece fascinated Mycroft, and Sherlock - while not as interested - seemed happy just to be there. They'd shared a simple lunch in the shade of a large chunk of marble, sweating from the heat of the unrelenting sun. In their long-sleeved khaki outfits, they could have been mistaken for Victorian adventurers. Mycroft sketched in his journal while Sherlock clambered over the ruins like a five-year-old boy. By the time they rode their hired scooters back to the village, they were both exhausted from the heat.

They opened the doors to the patio and stripped down to their pants, collapsing onto the bed for a much-needed nap.

They'd woken up just before sunset.

Sherlock joined him on the patio, a towel still wrapped around his waist from the shower.

"Enjoying your book?" he asked, leaning in for a kiss.

"Enjoying everything," Mycroft replied.

It wasn't often that they had moments like this to themselves, when they could openly exist as lovers without fear of judgement; moments as beautiful and delicate as a soap bubble.


	15. Balloon

For wastingyourgum.

Summary: A Royal invitation. (Sherlock/Lestrade)

* * *

><p>Sherlock strode into Lestrade's office with a smile and an expensive-looking envelope.<p>

"Ask me where we're going."

Lestrade wasn't really in the mood for 'Gleeful Sherlock', but it was better than many of the alternatives.

"I'll bite. Where are we going?"

"Buckingham Palace!"

"They offer you a knighthood again?"

"Well, yes. But I turned them down; I don't go in for all that nonsense. You could just call me 'Sir' in bed though, if you'd like."

"Don't you wish," Lestrade said with a laugh. "As far as that's concerned, I'm the only one with a knighthood, and it'd better stay that way."

"Yes, _sir_," Sherlock replied, dropping the letter onto his desk.

Lestrade pulled it out and read it. "State dinner in your honour? Impressive."

"All that business with Moran. Service to Queen and Country. Mycroft is jealous as hell."

Somehow Lestrade doubted that, but he let it go.

"I've booked a fitting with my tailor for this afternoon; you'll need a decent suit - not one of your usual ones."

"Can't I just wear a sheet? We'd match."

"That was _one_ time," he huffed. "I'll be wearing something more suitable, I can assure you."

Lestrade grinned, wondering if the Queen knew what she was in for: dinner with a smug bastard sporting an ego the size of a weather balloon.


	16. Blanket

**A/N**: For deathbygatiss.

**Warning**: sibling incest (or not - it depends on how you read it)

**Summary**: This time, the shock blanket probably would have been a good idea.

* * *

><p>Anthea interrupted his meeting with the Foreign Secretary.<p>

"Sir, I'm terribly sorry, but it's urgent."

She handed him the phone. Lestrade barely got out "Sherlock's in the hospital…" before Mycroft bolted from the office.

He was in traffic, cursing it and urging the chauffeur to find a better route, when his personal phone rang.

"You didn't let me finish, Mycroft. He's going to be fine - a cracked rib and a mild concussion, but it could have been much worse, considering. I'm here with him; he'd like to talk to you."

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock, Christ. Are you all right? What happened?"

"They're making entirely too much fuss. I'm fine," Sherlock replied, but an undercurrent of fragility in his tone implied otherwise.

Lestrade came back on the line. "Look, what the stupid git isn't telling you is that he got pushed in front of a train when he was running after a suspect. The thing barely missed him. He's more shook up than he's letting on."

"Is it safe for him to be discharged into my care?"

"Yeah, they're doing the paperwork now."

By the time they were back in Mycroft's flat, Sherlock looked exhausted.

"Thanks for coming, My."

"Of course, love. Stay here for as long as you want." He gave him a gentle kiss and wrapped him up in his softest blanket.


	17. Braggart

**A/N**: For youcantsaymylastname, who deserves far more than 221 words.

**Pairing**: John/Sherlock

* * *

><p>It was nothing short of a miracle; Sherlock Holmes was being both polite and modest.<p>

He wasn't deducing or insulting anyone, nor was he expounding on his recent brilliant successes.

John peered at him over the perfectly-cooked steak on the bone china plate and wondered if his lover was ill. It was just so abnormal.

The two of them, along with Mycroft, were spending the weekend 'in the country' at Sherlock's childhood home. Sherlock had finally agreed, after much resistance, to let him meet Mummy. John had expected her to be stiff and remote, but her warm, friendly manner and her wicked sense of humour won him over immediately. She teased Sherlock good-naturedly, but he refused to take the bait or fire back any sort of acid retort.

John finally got him alone after the meal.

"You all right?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"You haven't insulted anyone since you've been here - not even Mycroft. And you've been downright polite to your mother."

"As it should be."

Realisation dawned on John's face. "Oh, now I get it. You're trying to outdo Mycroft and be 'The Perfect Son'."

"Perhaps," he admitted with a reluctant smile.

"Well, points for effort, Sherlock, but even if she's not aware that you insult everyone, I think she already knows you're a complete braggart."


	18. Before

**Summary**: Sherlock and Mycroft try to escape the summer heat.

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Pairing**: Mycroft/Sherlock, **Beta**: deklava

* * *

><p>"Shove over, Mycroft. Your arm is sticking to my chest. It's disgusting."<p>

They lay sprawled across Sherlock's small bed in the stifling air of his Montague Street flat. The small fan in the window barely made a dent in the heat.

"If I may remind you, this was your idea; far be it from me to complain. Although I'm not sure exertion in this weather is wise."

"We should have done this at yours; I don't know what I was thinking."

"You were thinking you were too lazy to make the trip," Mycroft teased, deliberately annoying Sherlock by running a sweaty finger across his brother's too-warm chest. "Perhaps next time the benefits of air conditioning will outweigh the inconveniences of travel."

Sherlock batted his hand away. "I could do with a cool bath."

"It's nicer outside; why don't we go for a walk?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but got dressed. They wandered lazily to Russell Square, just around the corner from his flat. Couples and small groups sprawled languidly on the grass: eating sandwiches, sketching, and dozing gratefully in the light breeze that offered a respite from the heat. Naked toddlers ran through the small fountain, squealing with glee.

Sherlock looked around, confused. "It's possible I should leave the flat more often. I don't think I've ever been here before."


	19. Bedroom

**Summary**: Mycroft interrupts an experiment.

**Pairing:** Mycroft/Sherlock

**Rating**: G

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Beta**: deklava

**A/N**: This is a direct sequel to Chapter 18, "Before".

* * *

><p>Their expedition to Russell Square played through Mycroft's head as he distractedly signed paperwork. There weren't enough moments like that. He was too busy. Sherlock was too antisocial. He wondered if he'd even left the flat since they'd sprawled on the grass and talked for hours.<p>

He dismissed his driver for the evening and took a cab to Bloomsbury.

His knock was answered with a shout of "Go away!"

He knocked again. Sounds of annoyed muttering and heavy footsteps headed in his direction.

"I told you, go…"

Sherlock opened the door, Erlenmeyer flask in hand, and stopped mid-sentence.

"Oh. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"What did I do?"

"Nothing. I wanted to see you. Did I interrupt something?"

"Yes. I mean no. Come in." He looked puzzled. "Really, why are you here? Usually I'm the one showing up for sex."

"I want to spend more time together, and you need to leave the flat more often."

"If I don't add this reagent, we'll have to leave it in a few minutes."

"Go on, then." He steeled his nerves as Sherlock took care of the chemical reaction.

"So you want me to go on more walks?"

"No. I want you to move back in."

Sherlock paused. "But… my experiments."

"I've already cleaned out the spare bedroom."


	20. Back

**Pairing**: Mycroft/Greg  
><strong>Beta<strong>: deklava  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G

**A/N:** For Shea, who did the Russian translation of _The DI and the Spy_.

* * *

><p>Greg unconsciously curled in closer against Mycroft's warm body.<p>

The movement was just enough to draw Greg from his dreams. He stayed still, not wishing to wake his partner, and enjoyed the blur of freckles across his back that wouldn't focus into singularities at this range. At his age, not much _would_ focus at this range, he thought with a smile.

He'd unknowingly waited more than half his life for Mycroft - he didn't think the life expectancy for policemen went into the nineties - and their relationship brought him happiness he'd given up on finding.

It was no small irony that Sherlock, whose chaotic interference made his life so difficult, had brought them together. (And then tried to drive them apart, and had finally given up in a huff and accepted it.)

On the evening before their commitment ceremony, Sherlock had pulled him aside after dinner.

"If you ever hurt him, I will kill you. And no one would find the body."

Greg had nodded solemnly in agreement. "He means everything to me."

He found Sherlock's concern for Mycroft rather touching. He needn't have worried; they'd been married for almost six years now, and Sherlock had recently taken to describing their behaviour as "still disgustingly smitten."

_He's damn right I'm smitten_, he thought, as he contentedly kissed the freckles along Mycroft's back.


	21. Barbeque

Summary: Greg explores new culinary opportunities.

**A/N:** Pairing: Mycroft/Greg, Rating: G

* * *

><p>"You have anything on tomorrow night?" Greg said into the phone.<p>

"Not that I'm aware of," Mycroft replied.

"Dinner at mine? I got a new toy."

"Oh, really?"

"Not that sort of toy, sorry."

"Pity. But yes, I'd love to."

* * *

><p>Greg stood on his balcony and arranged the 'charcoal briquettes' in the base of the small tabletop grill. After dousing them with lighter fluid, he stood back and threw a match onto them. There was a spectacular 'fwumpf' of flame.<p>

Then he waited.

By the time Mycroft showed up, they were an ashy white. He led him outside and gestured towards it. "Ta-da!"

"What on earth is that?"

"My new way of burning meat. Hopefully not so much, this time."

Mycroft gave him a dubious look.

"Worst comes to worst, we can do take-away." He opened the grill and let Mycroft examine it. "Should be better than last time. I put the hamburger on straight away—burnt on the outside, raw in the middle. Had to bin it."

"That's reassuring."

"I looked it up online and you're supposed to wait."

He put two steaks on the metal bars and they sizzled promisingly.

When they'd finished eating—their steaks had cooked to perfection—Mycroft had to admit he'd been hasty in his initial judgement of Greg's skills with the barbeque.


End file.
